


The Last Snows Of Summer

by Ias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Politics, Queen Daenerys, Sansa-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time a Queen came to Winterfell marked the final days of Sansa's happiness. After so long spent picking up the pieces, she only hopes it will be different this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Snows Of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the trope bingo square "Food Porn" and definitely leaning more towards the "revolves around food" aspects.

The sweet smell of rot hung thick in the air. Sansa forced herself to breathe past it, her teeth gritted tight with tension. The two women before her did not fidget, but she could tell it was an effort; their hands were folded tightly over their aprons, their eyes bright with tension and staring straight ahead. Sansa stood with one hand gripping her wrist behind her back, her fingers drumming on the bone.

“And none of them can be saved?”

The first woman shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

Sansa exhaled through her nose and rested a baleful gaze on the barrels in front of her. They were filled to the brim with apples, or more accurately with rotting apples. That was, in fact, the problem.

“The harvesters assured us they’d get to us in time, but they were mired up on the roads after the recent storms, and in that time…” the cook trailed off with a hopeless gesture.

“I understand.” Sansa plucked one off the top and rotated it in her hand. Half looked smooth and delicious; the other was puckered and brown. Her heart sunk a little lower. “I don’t suppose the flavor could be masked?” she suggested, fighting the forlorn note out of her voice. The chefs in front of her exchanged a glance. “Stewed, perhaps? Or seasoned with cinnamon?”

“It would be possible, my Lady,” one of them said carefully. “But…”

“No, you’re right. That wouldn’t do,” Sansa conceded. “Have any hands you can spare look through the barrels for any that might be unspoiled. Use what you can.” She could not serve her guests rotten apples.

She left them to it, sweeping out of one room of the kitchen and making her way through the halls at a dignified pace. It was all she could do not to break into a run, to dash from room to room like a dog with the scent of game in its nose. But that would do nothing but cause a stir, and causing a stir would only set things back further.

After a few moments of brisk walking she stepped into the banquet hall, watching the tapestries be brushed clean and every available surface mopped down by firm hands. Jugglers practiced their craft on the dais, and a few minstrels sat tuning their instruments and humming random notes. Most people did not notice her passing by; those that did offered up a polite smile, and just as quickly threw themselves back into their work. She had spent enough time hovering in the background that they knew not to let her presence distract them. They walked a delicate line to have all the preparations ready in time for tonight.

This visit had been a long time coming; Sansa knew that, yet it did little to assuage her fears. One of the first things Queen Daenerys had done after ascending the throne had been set out to tour her old home and new kingdom on dragonback. Any houses with the ambition to stand against her had quickly been subdued. Those who openly opposed her had been eliminated.

Sansa had no such ambitions. Daenerys was the one who hoisted her up to power in the first place; her brother Brandon was the true heir by virtue of his sex, and Rickon after him. But Daenerys’s ascent to the Iron Throne had already shattered the protocol of male lineage which she had originally been born under, and it seemed the young queen had taken a liking to Sansa in the weeks they had spent in court. It had been truly unbelievable; at best, Sansa had been a relic of a House near-fallen into ruins. At worst, she was nothing. Just a silly girl who wanted to return to a home that hardly existed. But Daenerys had seen something more.

Sansa still remembered it as clearly as if it had been last week. She had responded to a royal summons early in the morning, a few days before she planned to leave and oversee the rebuilding of the keep. When the strange and silent guards pushed open the doors, she expected to see the whole of the court murmuring and tittering before her. Instead, the room was empty.

It was a different place than she remembered from when Joffrey had ruled. The tapestries which had covered the windows and choked the light to little more than a glimmer had been torn down, letting sunlight stream through in shafts that spilled onto the floor and turned it molten gold. Before, setting foot in the throne room had triggered a wave of dread and nausea surging up into the back of her throat. Now, she could almost admire how beautiful the place truly was.

The dragon skulls, which Sansa had always imagined adorning the walls, were nowhere to be found. “We have no need of old bones,” Daenerys had said. “My dragons live.” Sansa had yet to truly see one. She had heard them, though; a swift, furious wind blowing in from the harbor, whipping the trees and thrashing the stones with enough power to upturn both. And then the roars had begun; deep, distant, yet Sansa could feel them in every inch of her body. The flames, she knew, had followed; the evidence of which were still obvious on the higher ramparts and walls, when the Goldcloaks had still had the noble thought to try and stand their ground. That had not lasted long.

Sansa had stepped softly through the massive room, her boots padding across the floor as she made her way to the throne. Daenerys sat there, her hands resting on the pommel of two of the many swords which made her seat. This was the first time Sansa had ever truly been alone with her, yet she was no less intimidating. Her hair was long and silver-blonde, with a thick braid running through it set with silver bells. She wore a white gown, with inlays of light silver chain. An indiscernible smile played across her lips. It was a dangerous look on a dangerous woman. Sansa admired her all the more for it.

When Sansa finally made the long walk to the foot of the stairs, she stopped and curtseyed low and long. Her own long reddish hair was done up in a net set with blue topaz to match the pale blue of her dress, embroidered with the white leaves of winter. She knew that she looked beautiful, yet now she only felt small. All the same, she kept her hands steady and her mind clear. The season of fear was over for her.

“Rise.” The command was short, with a hint of amusement in it. Sansa obeyed, lifting her eyes to look her queen in the face. Daenerys’s smile had widened ever so slightly into something a little less predatory. “Sansa Stark. I’ve heard a lot about you. You’ve been away from home a long time. But not for much longer, if I am correct.”

Sansa bobbed her head. “You are, Your Grace. I will be joining a party leaving by the Kingsroad three days from now.”

Daenerys leaned back. “So very soon. Yet Winterfell is still a charred ruin. Why not spare yourself the sight of your home in shambles?”

“As you said, my Queen. I’ve been away a long time now. And now that time must come to an end.”

Daenerys quirked an eyebrow. “What will you do up there? A desolate castle is no place for a lady of the court.”

Sansa held her gaze. “With all due respect, I was not raised in court. Winterfell is my home, and the North is where I belong. I will do what I can to help restore it—I’ll lift the stones myself if that’s what it comes to.” A bold thing to say, especially considering the fact that Sansa hardly had the strength of a builder; yet she meant every word.

 Something she had said seemed to have pleased Daenerys greatly; her eyes were shining now. “Who is it that currently oversees the castle’s restoration?”

“Jon Umber. You may know him as the Greatjon.”

“One of your father’s bannerman. A fair choice for the task. Yet not, I think, the right one.” Sansa shifted nervously, but Daenerys gave no hint as to her meaning. “And who is it that will inherit the lands and titles associated once you have finished lifting all those stones?”

“My brother Brandon is the oldest trueborn heir,” Sansa said. “Rule of Winterfell will fall to him.”

“Yet Brandon has chosen to remain beyond the Wall, perhaps indefinitely.”

Sansa did not question how Daenerys knew these things. “Yes, my Lady. If not Brandon, then my brother Rickon.”

Daenerys’s lips quirked. “The wilding boy. I have a feeling you’ll have a hard time dragging him back to civilization, let alone capturing his interest in the life of a lord. You need someone with the strength to hold the North together, yet strength alone is not enough.”

She descended the steps until she was almost level with Sansa, and immediately it was as if a shroud had fallen off her; suddenly Sansa was addressing the woman, not the queen. Insanely, Sansa almost laughed: Daenerys was much shorter than her.

 “The North is on the brink of collapse. It has always been a hard place to hold; so distant from King’s Landing, in both leagues and culture. And with such a struggle, the wolves inevitably start closing in. And not the kind you would find to your liking. Whoever holds Winterfell must have the guile to survive their politics, and the strength to quell their swords.” Daenerys paused. “I have a question for you, Sansa. I would ask that you answer it honestly.”

Sansa nodded, suspicion a constant buzz in her head. “Of course, my Lady.”

Daenerys stared at her for a long minute, and then seemed to come to a decision. “Do you believe you are strong, Sansa?”

She almost immediately said no. She had spent so long playing weak, because the powerful were cut down sooner; she had learned to twist the levers in the people who might have hurt her, and duck the scythe when it inevitably came for them.

“I don’t know,” she eventually said. “I don’t feel strong. I don’t know that I’ve ever known what it is to feel powerful. I thought that my father was strong—Robb too, and even Arya. Yet it seems I’ve outlived them all” Her voice grew stronger . “I survived. I won no battles and suffered greatly, but in the end I lived. And maybe that’s a kind of strength. That’s the best answer I can give.”

Daenerys nodded slowly. “Well then. It’s decided.”

Sansa frowned ever so slightly. “My Lady—forgive me, I am confused.”

“Allow me to enlighten you.” Daenerys rose to her feet. “Sansa Stark, as an executive order by your queen I am declaring you Lady Ruler of Winterfell, the commander of its lands, titles, and peoples, and Warden of the North and all its territories.”

There was a long silence. It seemed as if Sansa’s voice had died in her throat, or that she was on the verge of waking up from some twisted dream. That same amused smile found its way back to Daenerys’s lips. “Do you have nothing to say to that?”

Sansa closed her mouth, then opened it again. She took a deep breath. “My Lady—I—I’m sorry, but—is this a joke?” When Daenerys stopped laughing for long enough to shake her head, Sansa felt a flutter of actual panic stir up in her chest. “I cannot do this.”

Daenerys reigned herself back. “I beg to differ. I believe you are more capable of this task than anyone else.”

“The line of succession—Bran and Rickon, it’s their right as heir—“

“They have abandoned their right, just as I have abandoned the traditions of Westeros rule. Do you see a man sitting beside me on that chair?” She shook her head. “I took Westeros back from the imposters. It’s my plan to rule it, woman or no. You are the oldest of your House’s heirs, and by far the best equipped to hold its titles. The North will rally to one of its own. And you will rally them to me.”

That had been three years ago. Sansa had gone north and she had done as her Queen commanded. It hadn’t been as simple as that; there were rogue houses to reign back in, alliances to be sealed, rifts to be mended. Most of the time Sansa felt more like she was standing at the top of a crumbling tower which would come down at any moment; yet somehow, she held everything together. Daenerys had been right—with a Stark back in Winterfell, the North came back together. Even if that Stark was female. Sansa suspected that people were just tired of fighting. Especially after hearing what Daenerys’s dragons had done to King’s Landing when the Lannisters tried to stand against her.

Sansa had thought of that morning often since then. More accurately, she had thought of Daenerys. The woman who brought the Lannisters to their knees, who didn’t throw off Sansa’s chains so much as hand her the key. And now, for the first time since then, Sansa was going to see her again. The very thought sent a nervous shiver through her belly. Daenerys had visited many houses since her rise to power. Her passing saw the fall of old lords and the rise of new, shifts in the regime wherever the slightest weakness was noted. Sansa had no love for power, but she would not step down from all she had worked for lightly. This would be her moment to prove that the North was flourishing under her more than in politics, that she was worthy of the gift Daenerys had given her. This was about pageantry, and Sansa was going to throw the biggest festival the North had seen in living memory. And if she failed, she would lose it all.

As a girl she had always enjoyed this sort of thing—the feasting, the games, the dresses. Yet she was fast discovering that participating in such activities and planning them out were two entirely separate experiences, only one of which made her want to tear her hair out any time a stray thread appeared on one of the tapestries. Something had gone wrong nearly every waking moment for the past two weeks—shipments of food had come late or not at all, performers injured themselves, decorations accidentally destroyed. It felt as if they were no closer to being ready, and yet the feast was this very night.

Her eyes on the Kingsroad had reported that the royal party was travelling by horse—the dragons were not strong enough to bear the weight of every guest, but Sansa was assured that their presence was felt circling high in the sky above. At this rate, they would be here in just a few short hours, and Sansa still had the majority of the third course to oversee. The cooks would manage just fine on their own, of course, but when the alternative was for Sansa to sit in her room and wait, she would prefer the option which did not leave her alone with her thoughts.

Wonderful smells wafted from the kitchen as she hurried through the rest of her inspection, weaving through the throng of activity with the fires of the ovens hot on her face. She felt like a child again, when she and Arya had scurried around the cook’s legs to steal a sweet or two from the table. Now she took nothing except words of hassled reassurance from the various workers bustling about. In part it was amazing to see all the various components come together into pies and roasts and cakes, but Sansa was too nervous to stop and appreciate it. The heat in the kitchens made her head feel light, and she found herself frequently patting her hands on her dress to dab away at the sweat there.

“Do you think it could use more salt?” Sansa suggested to the cook, who had stood still for long enough to give Sansa a sample of the veal stew on the pot.

The cook opened her mouth and looked as if she was about to say something pointed about Sansa’s culinary expertise when she was interrupted by one of the guards running into the kitchen and nearly upturning a tray of freshly baked bread. Even then the preparations merely shifted around him. He did, however, have Sansa’s full attention.

“My Lady,” he gasped, red in the face. “The royal caravan—Queen Daenerys—”

“Have they been sighted?” Sansa asked, a thrill of panic rising in her chest. She would hardly have any time at all to wash up and dress to befit greeting a royal party.

“No Lady Stark,” the guard said, straightening up with difficulty to look her in the eye. “They’re already here.”

 

 

 

 

Sansa ran, fistfuls of her dress clenched in her hands as her feet skipped over the ground. By the time she neared the stables she was breathing hard, the film of sweat from the kitchens beading on her forehead. She skidded to a halt as soon as she stepped into the yard, and not a moment too soon; many pairs of unfamiliar eyes rose to study her as she descended the steps on shaky legs. The newcomers were scattered around the grassy turf, leaning on walls and chatting in quiet voices with each other. They all seemed to be waiting for something, though it wasn’t Sansa; most of them lost interest in her only a few seconds later. Her own men were positioned around the courtyard standing tall and alert, yet seemed at loss as to whether they were guarding the guests or guarding against them.

A pattering of feet followed by a loud exhalation by Sansa’s ear signaled the arrival of her friendly informant from the kitchen, who had fallen behind during Sansa’s flight through the castle. She heard a few jeering laughs as the strangers noticed his red face and puffing breaths. Ignoring them all, Sansa stepped forward with her back as straight as a sword, ignoring the dizziness in her head as she fought to control her own breathing. The run from the kitchens had taken the wind out of her, and likely provided enough stories for the serving staff to tell for decades to come.

“How did they get here without me being informed?” Sansa murmured, the anger in her voice apparent despite her best efforts.

“Their party split off from the wagons and remaining procession to ride ahead on horseback, and arrive much quicker than our sources reported. By the time we realized who they were they were already at the gates. I’m sorry, My Lady,” the guard said for the hundredth time.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Sansa says, softening. “Report back to your captain. I will deal with this myself.”

“Yes, m’lady,” the guard said with wide eyes, turning to hurry away. He looked as if he expected her to step into the stables and scold the Queen herself for being too early. To be honest, Sansa had no idea what she was about to say. Her heart refused to slow down as she closed the distance to her destination. All of the court courtesies she had felt certain she could rely on fell away—there was no protocol for this.

Rounding the corner to the stable, Sansa came face to face with two guards she did not recognize, tall men with pointed helmets and cold eyes behind their visors. At their side stood two of her own guardsmen, who had been eyeing the newcomers distrustfully as Sansa approached. She tried her best to catch her breath and subtly dab at the dampness on her cheeks. Normally Sansa would have been appalled to appear in such a state, but there was no time to collect herself or feel any shame.

“Lady Sansa,” one of the Winterfell men began. “The Queen awaits you inside.”

Sansa nodded respectfully. She could not linger out here forever, not with so many people watching. She straightened her shoulders, took another breath, and stepped inside.

The smell of dung and horses was as strong as ever here, an earthy smell of grass and animal musk. There were many new horses in the stalls that Sansa did not recognize, although she was relieved to see that the stables had known to quickly accommodate them. A few more strangers worked to brush them down while the stable boys watched from the loft, their eyes all tracking Sansa as she made her way down the corridor. The stall at the end loomed ahead of her. Somehow she knew that was where she would find her.

Queen Daenerys stood with her head bowed over the neck of her mare, a dappled grey creature with intelligent eyes that settled on Sansa as she paused in the doorway. Daenerys did not pause her work to acknowledge her visitor. Her hands smoothed down the fur as she brushed it, the delicate fingers chasing her rigorous brush strokes. She wore riding leathers and thick cotton, and a fur-trimmed cloak had been tossed as an afterthought over the door. A messy braid, teased by the wind, coiled over her shoulder. Sansa could never have forgotten the color of her hair, like white gold spun as thin as a spider’s web.

Only when she had finished her work did Daenerys pause, turning to fix Sansa with a contemplative stare. Queenhood must have proved an exhausting profession. Her face was different from what Sansa remembered; her earliest memories of Queen Daenerys were of a woman flush with the spoils of her conquest. There had been pride, even arrogance, written in those eyes. Sansa saw none of it now; only the wary gaze of someone weighing their options. There was no affection at all, as Sansa might have dared to hope. Instead she found herself uncomfortably aware of her own value ticking into place.

She curtsied low. "My Queen. I must apologize that you were given no formal greeting. Traditionally any who could spare to leave their posts would have turned out to mark your arrival."

As she straightened up she saw Daenerys's wry smile, though there was little joy in it. "You know how I feel about traditions. I thought I might save you the trouble," she said, but there was another meaning behind it that Sansa couldn’t place. The woman took a step closer, and Sansa could see the glimmer of moisture on her throat from the hard ride to the gates. It made her all the more aware of the sweat cooling on her own face in the fresh summer air.

Daenerys paused to study her for a moment, taking in her messy hair and pink cheeks, the dirty hem of her gown. All at once Sansa felt a rush or embarrassment, and it was all she could do not to throw her hands over her face.

"I had little time to prepare," she stammered in response to the unvoiced question between them. Her fingers twisted unconsciously in the fabric of her dress.

"Not at all," Daenerys said. "You look happier than when I saw you last."

Sansa smiled quietly at that. "Being home has done me good," she replied. "The climate here is certainly invigorating, for those that can tolerate it. I hope you find it to your liking."

"I grew up in the heat. But I'm sure I'll manage. I will admit, a hot bath would be most welcome."

"Of course," Sansa said, speaking so quickly she nearly bit her tongue. "There will be a feast tonight at sundown in honor of your arrival, with no shortage of hot food. Your room should be ready now, as well as the housing for your accompaniment. Shall I show them to your quarters now?"

 "Thank you," Daenerys said with a fleeting smile as tired as the face that wore it. "But I think I would prefer some time to myself. The long journey has left me tired."

"Certainly," Sansa said, hoping that the sound of her heart plummeting into her feet was not obvious in her voice. "The guards will direct you as you need it. If there is anything you need, you must only ask."

Daenerys nodded. "Then I will not hesitate to do so." She stepped forward, pausing as she stood directly beside Sansa and meeting her eye. Her cool gaze shot knives of sensation through Sansa's chest, that she couldn't place as panic or fear. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Stark. I will see you at the feast."

A moment later she was gone, leaving Sansa standing alone in the stables with an empty feeling in her stomach. She did not linger with it for long. There were preparations to be made, foods to be tasted, and a myriad of angry thoughts to be lost in her work.

 

 

 

 

The mirror in Sansa’s bedroom was a family heirloom, set in a carved oak frame with the head of a direwolf looming over it from the top. Now more than ever she got the distinct impression it was glaring at her. If there was a time for inanimate objects to start turning against her, it would almost certainly be in the midst of this current disaster. Gritting her teeth, Sansa smothered the horde of anxieties in the back of her mind. They wouldn’t do her any good.

The dress she had been planning on wearing was tossed over the bed, a dress of greys and greens which brought out her eyes and kindled the red in her hair. It was too demure, she saw that now—she needed to make an impression, one of competence and strength. More than that, and for reasons she wouldn’t admit to herself, tonight Sansa simply wanted to look beautiful. And as she smoothed down the front of her dress and inspecting herself in the mirror, she had to admit she had succeeded.

Her hair was left long, tumbling down her back and woven with smaller braids. The dress was simple enough, layers of silk as pale a blue as the winter sky, slashed with white in the folds past her waist. But the dress itself was only a canvas. Over it were fitted elaborate pieces of metal, as thin as leather hide, wrought in the shape of branches and leaves out of steel. The metal had a darker gleam than silver did, and within the winter forest were the sleek shapes of wolves. They fitted over her shoulders and stomach, tapering to a point which slid up over her breastbone like the blade of a knife.

The embellishments were made to evoke the image of armor, and as Sansa’s eyes trailed over them she thought the effect quite accurate. It was certainly uncomfortable enough. Yet she didn’t feel as if she were about to ride out into battle; she felt encased, like a crab in its shell about to be tossed into the pot. And yet it was her duty to walk to it willingly. So walk it she would.

The passageways of the castle were busy with foot traffic either on the way to the feast or preparing for it. She stopped to speak with many of them, people who had grown close to her in the time since she returned home. Even some of the soldiers from the South paid her comments, and she felt the knot of tension in her chest start to ease. It was good to remember what she would be losing if she failed tonight.

She made the rest of her way quickly to the waiting room where Daenerys would arrive for the feast, unwilling to risk the slightest possibility of being late. A fire was rippling in the grate as Sansa settled down into one of the chairs, before immediately standing up to pace around the room. Through the second pair of doors on the other side of the room she could hear the sounds of people flooding into the hall to be seated, laughing and joking without a care in the world. Oh, how she envied them now. Edging the door open with a toe, she peered outside.

The hall was crammed with as many tables as would fit, with scarcely enough room between the benches for the servers to move among them. Minstrels competed with the dull roar to make their voices heard, with varying success. The guests spilled through the open doors into the courtyard, which had also been filled with tents and lanterns to hold off the early summer chill. Torches on the walls beat the shadows back into the corners and illuminated the harsh whites and blacks of the Stark banners, and the deep blood red of the Targaryens. She thought the colors looked very fine together.

And then the door behind her creaked open, and Daenerys stepped inside.

Her dress was in bronzes and golds, sheets of silk which shone like molten metal as they rippled down her form. As she stepped closer Sansa realized they were actually made of the finest of mail, with links so tiny they could have been stitches in thread. Her hair was braided with shards of metal which caught the light wickedly. The Targaryen crest, enameled between her breasts, gleamed in the firelight.

For the first time in a long time, Sansa’s carefully constructed court manner seemed to fall out the bottom of her mind. She stood there mutely as Daenerys approached, flanked by two of her guards and smiling coolly.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said after her voice finally came back to her. She completed a belated bow. “The feast awaits your pleasure.”

“Then let us wait no longer.” She stepped up and, without hesitation, looped her arm through Sansa’s . The smell of her spiced perfume was practically enough to make Sansa’s head swim, but she straightened her back, took a steadying breath through her mouth, and smiled her best court smile.

“Of course, Your Grace. If you would step this way.”

The double-doors to the hall creaked open before them, and the procession to the main dais began. Their guards went first, one of Winterfell beside each one of the Queen’s, covered with the emblems of their respective homes and carrying no weapons. Next came the small assortment of Daenerys’s guests, their own garb colorful but for one of the knights, who had favored leather and iron mail. The two women came last, arm in arm still, with Daenerys’s face breaking into a smile at the sight of the faces around them. Sansa couldn’t have mustered a genuine smile if her life had depended on it, for all the butterflies trapped in her stomach.

They settled into their seats at last, smiling pleasantly and without meaning as the first courses were brought to the table. A throng of workers carrying massive platters between them marched down the center aisle, wafting the smell of food and spices with them. A roar went up from the benches as the guests saw what courses lay ahead of them: roasted pigs basted with honey, beef haunches crusted in herbs, cauldrons of creamed potatoes so large they took three servers to carry. The scent which preceded them made Sansa’s mouth water, and her stomach turn flips with nerves.

Each dish was brought up to the head table for the Queen to choose her first cut, and Sansa directly after. She watched Daenerys’s face carefully through the whole process, trying not to be obvious in her staring but unable to turn away. After each bite her eyebrows might raise, or her head give an appreciate nod, and she would smile and compliment the servers courteously.

Sansa did her best to sample every dish as well; she asked the servers to give her highest regards to the chefs, yet for most of the meal she scarcely tasted the food which passed over her tongue. There were yams and turnips and onions dripping with butter, fresh fish from the ponds which had remained unfrozen through the nights, warm bread served with milk and honey. The food kept coming and coming, meat pies and sweetbreads and flagon after flagon of summerwine. Before long Sansa’s stomach was groaning and her head spinning—she realized she had drunken too much.

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said at last. "It has been two years since your homecoming and rise as Warden of the North. I'd imagine those years must have seen at least as many hardships as triumphs."

Sansa was unsure whether she should confirm her difficulties or deny them entirely; holding the North together had been an impossible task that she still partly expected to fail, but showing weakness seemed ill advised. Her answers here could determine whether Daenerys saw her fit to continue as Warden altogether. She cleared her throat and took another sip of summerwine to buy some time.

"It was difficult, I won't deny that," she said, trying her best to sound confident in her words.

"As I understand it, the revelation that you were yet living came as nothing less than a miracle," the knight Ser Jorah said.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," Sansa quoted automatically. "A common saying in the North, it's true. But my Stark blood was not enough to hold our people together alone. In the beginning there was resistance to the idea of a woman ruling Winterfell."

"I'd imagine our own Lady Queen helped quash that soon enough," another of Daenerys's guests said.

"Oh, most definitely," Sansa said. "Even once people came to accept it, there were still many jockeying for power and titles, especially my own."

"Greed is a common denominator of all people, male or female," Daenerys said crypically. "Everyone desires power, even those with the most of it." She blinked her long lashes slowly. "Do you find it to your liking, Lady Sansa?"

"I—It is only my duty," Sansa stammered. She couldn't imagine why Daenerys was asking these questions. Did she suspect Sansa of trying to move against her? It was true that the North was large and powerful, but there were few walls that would stand under the heat of dragonfire. “I am only happy to be home, Your Grace. I often thought I would never be here again.”

Daenerys nodded. “You have been very lucky indeed.” Sansa wondered if she was imagining the threat behind those words. Either way, the tossing of her stomach only intensified. Surprisingly enough, she felt a distant tingle of anger. She had been lucky, yes; incredibly lucky, compared to the fate of everyone around her. Yet luck hadn’t gotten her where she was today. She had earned her place here as much as Daenerys had, as Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And she couldn’t lose it again.

Her heart beat faster with the racing of her thoughts, the roiling emotions in her head competing with the roar of the crowd. She had come so far to fall now. The smoky air seemed to constrict around her throat, and suddenly more than anything she needed to be outside.

“Lady Sansa?” Daenerys leaned into her field of vision, her eyebrows raised in concern. “Are you well?”

Sansa forced a smile onto her lips. “Your Grace, I must beg your leave,” she said, rising to her feet.

A wry smile crossed Daenerys’s lips. “It is protocol for the host to remain with her guests.”

Sansa inclined her head politely, a spark of something steely igniting in her chest. “True enough, Queen Daenerys. But I know how you feel about protocol.”

An actual smile crossed the Queen's lips, and after a moment Daenerys inclined her head. “Of course. I wish you well.”

Sansa swept out of the hall, and the clanking of forks and knives followed her like laughter.

 

 

 

 

The path leading to the godswood was a familiar one. During her time in King’s Landing, it was only in the godswood where she ever felt truly safe. Now the dark, old trunks of trees pressing around her were a familiar comfort. She followed the flickering light of the torch her guard bore in front of her until it revealed the pale branches of the heart tree standing out against the gloomy background of leaves.

“I’d like to be alone,” she said. With a nod, the guard pushes the torch into the hard earth and retreats back to the walls of the keep. Firelight flickered on the surface of the water as black as dragonglass, and over the face peering out from the trunk of the weirwood.

There was a time when being here at night would have terrified her. Now it’s the only thing that can keep her mind from racing. As she watched, the first few flakes of a summer snow descend from the sky. Already she partially regretted coming out here, but she preferred the shiver working its way down her arms to the press of bodies inside the hall. Everything seems to be falling apart so suddenly; at least out here she had room to watch the pieces crash down.

“It’s quite cold.” Sansa’s head whirled around, a short gasp escaping her. Daenerys stood by the bank of the pond, her palms cradling her elbows and a faint smile on her face. She had donned her fur cloak, and was almost lost in its bulk. “Not good for someone just taken ill.”

Sansa blinked herself back into coherence. “Your Grace. I—I was not expecting you.”

“And I was not expecting to be out in the middle of a snow storm.” She gestured to the log on which Sansa was sitting. “May I?”

“Of course!” Sansa stammered, leaping to her feet. “I’m sorry, how rude of me.”

Daenerys settled down and looks up at Sansa with a smile. “I was hoping you would join me.”

Sansa flushed with embarrassment. “Yes. Sorry.” She settled back down, folding her hands tightly in her lap, her back straight and tense. Daenerys observed her with an eyebrow raised.

“I would say you look uncomfortable, but that would be a gross understatement,” Daenerys said.

Sansa deflated. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

“Don’t apologize, Sansa. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Sansa looked up at the use of her name, so informal on Daenerys’s lips. It was hard to deny that she liked the way it sounded. “I am… concerned. My hold over the North is tenuous at best. I realize it would be perfectly reasonable for you to regret your decision to put me in this situation.”

Daenerys stared at Sansa in shock before throwing her head back to laugh. It was a raw, clean sound, more carefree than Sansa would have ever expected. “Is that really why you think I’m here?” Daenerys asked, mirth still shining in her eyes.

Sansa shuffled her feet, chagrined. “I’m beginning to suspect I’ve made a miscalculation.”

“A very large one. The North is yours. I’m not here to change that.”

Sansa paused, a question bubbling up that had bothered her all these years. “If I may ask… why did you choose me? There were dozens of others more qualified than I was to hold the North.”

“If by more qualified you mean possessing male genitalia, then yes, you are correct,” Daenerys said with amusement. “You succeeded in your task. Does it matter why I suspected as much?”

Sansa was quiet. “I just want to know.”

Daenerys leaned back. “I saw something in you, from the very beginning. The capacity for hardness without compromising kindness. And guile. I think perhaps you’re one of the cleverest players I’ve found in this game. To have lived with the lions for so long, and survived—I was impressed.”

Sansa looked down in shock. “My Queen—you flatter me.”

“No, I tell you the truth. I’m well aware how difficult it is to be away from home.” Sansa realized then that the woman sitting beside her had seen the same hardships, the same loss of family and ultimate triumphs that she had. In a moment of tenderness, she reached out to place her hand over Daenerys’s smaller one.

“Can I ask you something, Sansa?” she began, hesitation a stutter in her voice.

“Of course,” Sansa replied carefully.

Daenerys tilted her head back to stare up at the dark sky. Sansa couldn’t help but follow her gaze; the white flakes came down faster now, spinning like falling stars which burned cold and brief on her forehead.

“How do you feel about me, Sansa?” Daenerys asked at last. “I’m not looking for flattery or even courtesy. I want your honest opinion: when you look at me, what do you see?”

Sansa stared at her in blatant shock. “Your Grace…”

“You may call me Daenerys. If you like.” She smiled ruefully. “I worked so hard for my title, you would think I’d be fonder of it.” The way Daenerys was looking at her so intently, Sansa got the sudden feeling that they were on the edge of something dangerous. She couldn’t help rushing towards it all the faster.

“Daenerys,” Sansa said, trying the name out on her tongue. It felt right. “I’m sorry, but… why would you care what I think of you? I’m hardly anyone of importance. For a while, I was no one at all.”

“There are many who would want you to believe that, Sansa Stark,” Daenerys said firmly. “Never once give them the satisfaction of doing so.” She leaned forward, staring straight into Sansa’s eyes. “I care what you think of me because we’re more alike than you may realize. I noticed it from the beginning—it’s something in the eyes. You can always recognize another survivor when you see one. We both have our scars. How many of mine can you see?”

Sansa traced her face with her eyes, imagining all the cuts and bruises and sunburns that had splattered across it through the years, remembering all of her own. In a move that even she would label mad, she reached out to brush the woman’s cheek with the tips of her fingers. Her flesh felt warm and soft, and something painful sprung up in Daenerys’s eyes.

“I see no scars,” she replied at last as she let her hand fall. “Only a woman who I have come to admire, and the heavy weight she carries on her shoulders. You don’t have to carry your past with you. Sometimes you need to set it down.”

Daenerys smiled distantly. “I am trying. It is difficult.” Her smiled turned more genuine, and Sansa returned it. “But perhaps you can teach me a few tricks.”

“I’d be glad to. It helps to begin by drinking at least as much wine as I did tonight,” Sansa replied. She winced. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

Daenerys bared her teeth in a laugh, then seemed to remember something.

“I have something for you.” Her hand disappeared into a fold in her robe, and then reappeared closed over something in the palm. She reached out and her fingers closed around Sansa’s wrist, raising her hand up to place a single silver bead in the center of it.

“It’s a bell,” Sansa said in surprise.

“The Dothraki collect a bell for every battle won,” Daenerys explained. “The North was a victory for you. I’m sure you will see many more.”

Sansa stared at the little ball of metal in her hand before closing her fingers over it. Just earlier she might have protested, claimed that she had only succeeded because of the help others gave her. But that wasn’t the whole of it. She had survived the Lannisters; she hadn’t accepted the North, she had taken it back with the work from her own hands. The reason Daenerys wasn’t supplanting her was because there was no one better for the job.

With deft fingers, Sansa threaded the bell into one of her braids. It settled against her collarbone, a metallic glint against her red hair. After a brief pause, Daenerys reached out to gently touch it.

“It suits you,” she said quietly.

Sansa’s smile turned bolder and her fingers flitted up to capture the Queen’s own. “Victory suits us both.”

 

 

 


End file.
